Sherlockian Drabbles
by foxboxtango97
Summary: I get bored easily, okay? A series of drabbles unconnected to each other or my other completed story, 'Feline and Canine'. Largely plotless, also pointless - but occasionally humorous, so if you have time to waste, join me!
1. Love it or Leave it

Love it or Leave it

"God, John, what is this awful music?"

John laughed.

"It's meant to be awful; it's the Love it or Leave it piece on Classic FM. Every Thursday they play a famous piece of music that's been changed by someone. Probably a bored person."  
"It's _awful_."  
"I told you, that's the point."

They listened as synthetic drums were added to Bach's famous work.

"Moriarty would die."

John laughed again, and then stopped and looked at Sherlock. He stopped and looked back, a weird glint in his eye. He chuckled, his deep baritone spreading throughout the room as he flew past John, stealing his laptop on the way.

"Excellent."

* * *

"Sorry, boys; I'm _so_ changeable!"

John's heart stopped, stuttered, restarted as Moriarty re-entered the pool and dozens of red dots appeared on his and Sherlock's bodies. Sherlock looked at him, eyes questioning, and John could only nod.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," he uttered, levelling the gun at his adversary. Then, suddenly, Sherlock reached into his pocket, drew out his phone and pressed three buttons. For a second, nothing happened and Moriarty looked unimpressed, but then the sound of string instruments filled the pool, reverberating eerily off the walls. It was the same music John had been playing the other week. Moriarty tilted his head curiously, and then smirked.

"Wait for it," Sherlock promised.

And then the drumbeat started.

Moriarty's eyes widened.

"_What is this?_" he shouted. "Who dares to change, to _mutilate_ Bach in such a way?! No!"

He fell to his knees, clutching his head. John frowned in confusion, staring at Moriarty.

"He _really_ likes classical music," he muttered. Sherlock just laughed, and then typed in a number.

"Hello, brother dear. Yes, I know, but we've got a deranged psychopath on his knees at the pool and were wondering if you could possibly take the time out of your busy schedule to come pick him up," he said and hung up without a goodbye.

John stood up on trembling legs and they both looked at Moriarty, still clawing at his head.

"Can we just walk away now?"  
"I suppose. Dinner?"  
"Starving. Angelo's?"  
"Chinese. After you."  
"Cheers."

And so they left, leaving Sherlock's phone where it was, on repeat and torturing the insane man with terrible music.

* * *

A/N:

Howdy.  
(no, that's stupid)

G'day is more fitting.

I just need to clarify something with this story. I'm an Aussie, so the radio station I mentioned is from Australian radio. I know they're English, but the opportunity was just too good to pass up.

I didn't have a specific piece in mind, but you'll _probably_ be able to search 'Love it or Leave it' up on the internet and find some horrible mutilation of classical musical. There's all sorts of stuff out there, to be honest. I don't know if there is a Bach piece with a bad synthetic drumbeat, but it's probable.

This is the first of a series of completely unconnected, rather stupid drabbles that have never even seen a _definition_ of 'meaning'. Really, it's true.

Also, I am so boooorreeddd... Entertain me, internet!

Cheers,  
foxboxtango

Disclaimer: Nup.


	2. Laser Tag?

**Laser Tag**

"Laser tag?"  
"_Yeah!_"

Sergeant Donovan, Detective Inspector Lestrade and the world's only Consulting Detective stared at Anderson.

"Are you out of your mind? Don't, Sherlock," Lestrade added hurriedly. Sherlock closed his mouth a little sadly. "John was in the _army_, Anderson. The _army_. None of us would stand a chance against him."  
"I promise I'll go easy!"  
"No you won't."  
"No, I probably won't."  
"Besides, you might have a flashback, and nobody wants that, least of all you," Sherlock's silky tone was working on the soldier; his shoulders sagged and his body deflated a bit as he was led away by his flatmate.  
"You're right, I suppose. Would've been fun though. Maybe next time."  
"Maybe."

Donovan breathed out once they were out of sight.

"That was close."  
"Laser tag? Seriously, Anderson?"  
"Alright, alright; stupid idea."  
"Definitely."  
"What about paintball?"  
"No!"

* * *

A/N:

I'm sorry, were you expecting point? Haha, we don't have that sort of stuff around here!

(you have no idea how tired I am. why, why, _why_ am I not going to bed?)

fbt97


	3. In the Army

In the _Army_...

The Yard was buzzing.

Not exactly unusual, seeing as it _was_ a police station and there were always crimes to be getting on with, but this was different.

"Six?"  
"Yeah. Lestrade's place."  
"Can't believe it."

Sherlock squinted at the officers milling about the room and they hightailed it out of there, not wanting to have their secrets outed in one of the most public and embarrassing ways they could think of. He glanced around once more and stalked towards Lestrade's office.

"What's going on?"  
"Good to see you too, Sherlock. John, how are you?"  
"Fine thanks, you?"  
"Alright. Coming tonight?"  
"Hadn't planned on it. Didn't want to see how the two would mix."  
"Now that would be a sight to see."  
"I'm sure it would be entertaining, but for the safety and wellbeing of others, I figured it was a bad idea."  
"True. Ah well, it's a shame you won't be there. You can't just ditch him for one night?"  
"I'll talk it over with Mrs. Hudson, she might be willing."  
"_What _are you two _talking about?_"  
"Success!"  
"Don't be mean."  
"I'm having a sort of get together at my place tonight. All the Yarders are coming and John was invited, but, well, he needed to babysit you."  
"I can assure you, I do not need babysitting!"  
"…Anyway, I was hoping John would come and show what he was made of."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Lestrade's having a drinking competition."

Sherlock's eyebrows met his hairline at John's amused admission.

"But you're not a drinker, John."  
"Not _really_, no."

His eyes narrowed at the vague answer.

"Well, I'm sure that would be lovely."  
"Lovely…what?"  
"It's been a while since we've gone out and I know you like to get away from the flat every so often."  
"I'm sorry, did you say _'we'_?"  
"Yes, of course."  
"Sherlock, I hate to say it, but you're a bit of a lightweight. There's no way you're going to win a drinking competition. And besides, the Yarders would love a chance to ridicule you and if you're drunk, well, who knows what you'd do. It's as much a safety issue for you as it is for them."  
"John, John. _I_ wouldn't be drinking."  
"What?"  
"No, it would simply be a social experiment, shall we say. I don't often get the chance to observe people under the influence of alcohol for a whole night."  
"You wouldn't drink."  
"No, John."  
"You'd just watch."  
"Yes, John."  
"Really?"  
"_Yes_, John."  
"Well, then. Greg? Is it alright if we both come tonight?"

The positives and negatives were obviously running through his mind. On one hand, John would be able to completely smash everybody else and it would hopefully stop them continuously making fun of him for following Sherlock around. On the other hand, letting Sherlock into his house where he retained his full mental capacities and allowing him full rein on 'observing' his colleagues…then again, maybe that wasn't _such_ a bad thing.

"Sure. Come 'round at six-ish."  
"Excellent, see you then. Come along John."

John rolled his eyes and waved.

"See you tonight, Greg."

Greg nodded and watched as Sherlock stopped and held the door open for his blogger, only to stride ahead once it closed.

Tonight would be interesting.

* * *

"Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink!"

John laughingly joined in the chant as Donovan faced off against Anderson. She was made of hard stuff and Anderson was already flagging after his second shot. He blinked, shook his head to clear it, and then slid clumsily off his stool, conceding defeat.

"And you call me a lightweight. Anderson's pathetic," Sherlock murmured in his ear.  
"Yes well, we knew that already."

Sherlock actually laughed.

"Looks like you're up."  
"Excellent. Wish me luck."  
"I hope you don't die from alcohol poisoning."  
"Good enough."

John stepped forward and took his place at the table, posture perfect and his hands on his thighs. He reached out, took the shot glass and saluted his opponent, and then downed it in one go. He set it back on the table and returned his palm to his leg. He gave a small smile, as though highly amused by the situation, but didn't react otherwise.

Lestrade sidled up alongside Sherlock and nodded towards the doctor (now swallowing his second).

"Good, isn't he."  
"Very. You almost can't tell he's drinking at all."  
"Alright then, how can you tell?"  
"His right hand is shaking the tiniest bit when he picks up his glass, so he's feeling the effects at least a little bit, although his left hand stays still; he's under pressure (not much, granted, but he's still under the scrutiny of the people he works with on a daily basis) and his left hand always remains still when he's feeling adrenaline. He's making a definite effort to keep his posture upright, but every couple of minutes, it will drop down again. You hardly ever see a drunken person sitting upright. He's swallowing more than usual; the alcohol is burning his throat and he tries to 'put the fire out', so to speak. To Sally, he is as sober as he was when he arrived, though she has been drinking far longer, so I'll let this one slide."  
"Right."  
"He's very good."

John had downed another three shots while they'd been talking and Sally finally gave up, her head sinking down onto the table and landing with a loud thud. He placed his glass down and hopped off the stool, walking remarkably steadily towards him.

"Well, that was fun. Thanks Greg. Sherlock? Shall we go?"  
"Good having you here, John, Sherlock. I'll probably talk to you soon. It's nearing Christmas now, and crime rates always seem to sky-rocket then."  
"I look forward to it. You might need to make sure Donovan gets home safely, she's imbibed much more than the legal limit and few of the cabbies will take someone _that_ drunk. You could always palm her off to Anderson, I suppose, his wife's gone away again and won't be back for another four or five days; long enough to get all the really obvious evidence of Donovan out of there. Oh, and there's a couple of junior officers upstairs rifling through your desk. Most of it is innocent, brought on by the alcohol, but one of the boys is sober and has a much more malicious intent. I'm sure you can figure out which one it is. Have a good evening."

And then they left, John walking slower than normal and Sherlock, for once, matching his pace, his arm half stretched out and ready to grab him should he fall.

"How did you get to be so good at drinking, John? You're certainly no alcoholic and the distaste with which you view your sister's addiction shows that you dislike it when others you know have the same affliction. You've never had more than two or three glasses of wine at a time since I've met you."  
"Sherlock, please," John muttered, his 'l's slightly longer than usual. "I was in the _army_."

* * *

A/N:

I've never had alcohol before.

Okay, not strictly true - I've had alcohol before, but under adult supervision, and it's pretty much been champagne and red wine (as well as the occasional sip of beer). I have no idea if I've just given Sally and John alcohol poisoning or not - and nor do I really care.

It's fiction! Bwahahah!

Also, if you're looking for meaning, you've really come to the wrong place. I'm just going to keep saying that, just in case you haven't quite got that into your head yet.

(who am I even talking to?)

fbt97

P.S I sincerely apologise to anyone and everyone. I go a little nuts when I'm tired, so I'm going to stop posting stupid short drabbles and go to bed.

...probably


	4. Bored!

Bored!

_Pop_.

John woke with a start. He looked around his room wildly, trying to find the source of the loud noise. Nothing seemed out of place, and yet…

Well, it was probably just the remnants of a dream. So long as it wasn't a nightmare about the War again, John didn't really mind. Sighing softly, he settled back down under his covers, and then tensed, because that was _always _the point in the story when the noise sounded again. As the seconds ticked by, he relaxed his muscles and closed his eyes again. It was only three in the morning – early enough to get a few more hours of sleep.

_Pop._

Dammit.

John swore as he chucked the covers off him, confident now it wasn't just a sound lingering from his subconscious. He stomped to the door and threw it open to be met with the sight of-

…Balloons?

There were hundreds of balloons of varying size and colour littered all over the flat. And there, in the very middle of the room with an absurdly gleeful look on his face was Sherlock. With a pin.

Of _course_.

John's shoulders sagged and he turned around to shuffle back into his bedroom.

"Only two."

He sighed again knowing his chance of getting any more sleep was equal to zero.

"Only two _what_, Sherlock?"  
"It only took two balloons. You're getting less patient."

John clenched his jaw, took a deep breath in through his nose and turned back to face his flatmate.

"That's what this was about? Testing my _patience?_"

Sherlock just stared at him vacantly.

"Not Good?"  
"A Bit Not Good, yeah."  
"Oh. Well, then I apologise, though I'm sure I don't know what I've done wrong."  
"You don't- you got up at three and started bursting balloons to test my patience, Sherlock!"  
"It's hardly the worst I've done."

John didn't know what to say to that; it was very true. Heads in the fridge, eyes in the microwave, god knows what other body parts lurking about their food, not to mention the screeching of the violin in the mornings. It didn't really make sense for Sherlock to do something this_ mundane_.

John narrowed his eyes.

"You weren't testing my patience at all, were you?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, though he avoided looking John in the eye. He sighed for the third time that morning.

"You just really wanted to pop all these balloons."

The reappearance of the odd grin was all the answer John needed.

"I can't believe you. This couldn't wait another three hours, at the very least? Of course not; you're Sherlock Holmes and bugger everyone else."  
"Not the phrasing I'd use."  
"Dammit, Sherlock, that's not the point."  
"I was _bored_, John, and the balloons were here; it's a logical conclusion. I did warn you to wear earmuffs to bed last night."  
"When did you warn me? Was I _there?_"  
"It's hardly my fault if you're not, is it?"  
_"SHERLOCK!"_  
"Calm down, John, it's not healthy to get all worked up like this."

John groaned and sat in his chair ungracefully.

"Why do I stay here?"

Sherlock opened his mouth.

"_Don't._ Silence."

He closed it again, then smiled and raised the pin.

"Don't do it."  
"John, you're so _boring_."  
"Shut up."

* * *

A/N:

Haha, lolz! Just kidding, surprise! Have another one!

Okay, seriously, this is getting out of hand and I need to section myself. I'm a danger to others. And myself, but mostly others.

Cheers,  
foxboxtango


	5. Sherlock Perceives (part one)

Sherlock Perceives  
and really wishes he hadn't

"Morning Sherlock."  
"Ah, God! Nooooo!"

Sherlock took one glance at Lestrade, then turned on his heel and fled, grabbing John by the arm on his way and yanking him out the door. The rest of Lestrade's team turned to look at him, but he only shrugged. His fingers stirred in his pocket, tracing over the now familiar letters monogrammed on the handkerchief currently residing in his jacket.

_M.H_

* * *

A/N:

I know it's ridiculously short and the author's note will more than likely end up being longer, but I couldn't resist, and this is a two-parter, so the next chapter follows on from this.

The feeling I get whenever I post these things is sort of, "_Here, guys, _::throws fanfiction at you:: _have some pointless fanfiction! It tastes nice, but will probably rot your brain and stop you from doing important things._"

I don't think that's the right thing...

...oh well...


	6. John Understands (part two)

John Understands  
and doesn't see what the big deal is

"Lestrade! Mycroft! Urgh!" Sherlock shuddered violently before clapping his hands over his eyes. John rolled his.  
"I don't understand what the big deal is, though. They're just another two people in a re-"  
"DON'T SAY THE WORD!" Sherlock nearly shrieked. John rolled his eyes again.  
"Don't you think you're being just a little bit overdramatic?"

Sherlock pulled his head back as though to say, 'Me? Dramatic? _Overly so?_ John, get out of here at _once_!'

"Nobody really likes to think of their sibling in a relationship-"  
"Argh, dammit John!"  
"But you're being completely unreasonable."  
"Me? Unreasonable? Mycroft's the one who chose the only person I have to deal with on a regular basis! He's doing it just to annoy me!"  
"Sherlock, you're an idiot."  
"JOHN!"  
"Mycroft is in a relationship – yes, I'm going to keep using that word as much as possible, so stop making that funny noise with your throat every time I do it – with Lestrade because he _likes_ him and wants to be. I can only assume it's mutual."  
"GAH! That's the worst bit! I can't possibly understand what anybody could possibly see in Mycroft! Even looking at him objectively and not as my brother at all! He's old, likes cake far too much and spies on people! None of those things are conducive to a relationship."  
"Well Greg is older than us. And maybe he likes baking cake."  
"You're being ridiculous."  
"_Me?_ _I'm_ being ridiculous?"  
"_Yes._"  
"Have you ever thought that maybe Mycroft feels exactly the same way about you? You have a complete disregard for most people's feeling, you don't even try to complete the usual social niceties and you're far too demanding for your own good, let alone anyone else's!"  
"...Do you really think that?"  
"No, of course _I_ don't. But everyone else does."  
"They don't matter," he dismisses them with a wave of his hand. John sighs.  
"All I'm saying is that maybe you could take the total disgust down a notch, even if it's only when dealing with Greg personally. At home you can feel free to say whatever you like. Besides, now Greg is with Mycroft, he might be a bit more relaxed about the whole, "_Don't go throwing soppy looks at each other at _my_ crime scene"_ thing he always has going on. If not, you can always tease him about it."  
"Oh, John, you always know what to say," Sherlock deadpans, one eyebrow flicking up.  
"Shut up, you great git. We're out of milk again (God knows _what_ you do with it) and I am taking you to Tesco's with me no matter what you say."

* * *

A/N:

Did anybody catch the subtle _Cabin Pressure_ reference? Virtual and imaginary kudos to you if you did.

This follows on from the last chapter, _Sherlock Perceives (and really wishes he hadn't)_. It's basically more pointless fun. :)


	7. Hippocratic Oath (for Scientists!)

**The Hippocratic Oath for Scientists  
**or, How Sherlock got Kicked out of Every Science Union Ever

"Sherlock, have you ever heard of the Hippocratic Oath for Scientists?"

Sherlock paused, looking up from his microscope where he was currently examining the effects of acid on an animal carcass compared to the effects on a human limb, which he had managed to charm out of Molly, and then somehow hide under his coat on the way back to Baker Street (via _cab_). He flexed his gloveless fingers and John eyed the full beaker of acid near his elbow warily.

"Heard of it. Deleted. It was irrelevant to my goals."

John glanced down at the Wikipedia page on his laptop, and then back up at the scene in front of him.

"Obviously," he muttered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John cast around for a change of topic to distract him. "What are you working on?"

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"You wouldn't understand," he declared, and went back to peering at the (now sizzling) animal skin. As John wondered how long it would take to work its way through to the bone, he mentally checked another one off the list.

He sincerely hoped there was no magical board of scientists that would come and try to hold Sherlock to such a thing. He had a feeling it would end badly, possibly with someone throwing acid around (John didn't disregard the thought that it might be him).

* * *

A/N:

So, yeah. That happened. I don't even know why I wrote this to be honest. I'm meant to be studying for a uni course I'm doing over the summer and the reading is sort of killing me. Normally I wouldn't mind it (I think most of the people on here are part of the population that actually enjoys reading), but I just cannot concentrate enough to get through it and understand. Anyway, I reached a part on Hippocrates and then had to look it up and there was a link to the Hippocratic Oath for Scientists, so I read it, immediately thinking of Sherlock. He pretty much breaks all the rules. All of them. All. (look it up...)

So the ending sucked, and this is no where near my best writing, but I had to entertain myself somehow, so this came into existence for your amusement.

Yay.

fbt97

...lolz


End file.
